


Love and Fear

by potatoesanddreams



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fatherhood, Motherhood, Overprotective Lúthien, Romance, Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020, dark Lúthien, highly questionable parenting, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26191996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potatoesanddreams/pseuds/potatoesanddreams
Summary: Tinúviel killed Carcharoth at the gates of Angband. Now she dwells in a reclaimed Dorthonion with her husband and son, and she suffers no stranger to enter her land. But her son Dior chafes at the rules she has set for him, and when he discovers a lost elf-maid who has wandered unknowingly across the border, Tinúviel's carefully constructed paradise begins to fall apart.
Relationships: Beren Erchamion & Dior Eluchíl, Beren Erchamion/Lúthien Tinúviel, Dior Eluchíl & Lúthien Tinúviel, Dior Eluchíl/Nimloth of Doriath, Lúthien Tinúviel & Nimloth of Doriath
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	1. Cover Art

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Junaril](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Junaril/gifts).



> This fic is a collaboration for TRSB 2020, and was inspired by Junaril's wonderful artwork!


	2. Tinúviel

The country is holy: O bide in that country kind,  
Know the green good,  
Under the prayer wheeling moon in the rosy wood  
Be shielded by chant and flower…  
– “In Country Sleep,” by Dylan Thomas

“Dior!” called Tinúviel. “Dior!”

The child had sung a gap straight through the rose-hedge and gone wandering, again, past the bounds that she had set for him. She was not over-worried, for the forest knew her son well; but for all that it was not a gentle place, and he was young. Safest to find him quickly.

“Dior!” she called again. No one answered but the trees, their branches bending gently toward her through the still air, leaves rustling like whispers. She put a hand on the trunk of the nearest of them, a scarred old oak with a huge hollow in its trunk. The sap was running freely within it, despite its age and injury, and its roots stretched far in all directions beneath the rich black soil. Tinúviel leant her head against its rough bark. She thought of Dior: soft pattering footsteps, small hands digging in the earth, song like swift-running water. “Is my son near?”

No answer but the echo of her own power. She frowned; her fingers traced the ridges in the tree’s bark. “Come now. _Come now…_ ” Her voice flowed smoothly from speech to song. “ _A creature walks upon the earth, and your roots know his footsteps. Your long roots feel the soil disturbed above you; your canopy sways above his head. Each part of you calls to the other. Call to me also, rooted in your soil, swaying like your branches. A living creature plants his feet upon your earth; let me feel him as you do._ Answer me!”

A moment still of hesitation; then the oak gave up its knowledge. She laughed in bemused surprise. “Dior!” she called. “Come out from behind there! I can see you!”

Her son’s hands appeared first, clinging to the great oak-root marking the edge of a muddy embankment. His worried face was next, followed by the rest of him as he clambered out of the little hollow that lay beneath. “Am I in trouble?” he asked, standing up and trying to brush some of the mud from his clothes.

“No,” Tinúviel promised. “Come here, my love.”

He came, a little reluctantly. “I wanted to stay out longer. I _asked_ him not to tell you…”

“Who – the tree?” Tinúviel smiled. “It required quite a bit of convincing before it would reveal you. I do not want to praise you for hiding from me – but it was skillfully done.”

“Well, I _asked_ him.”

“Yes.” She caught his hand as he brushed at his clothes, before he could smear the mud further into the weave of the fabric. “Let me.” She swatted efficiently at some of the more thickly caked areas, while Dior squirmed. “There’s not much to be done except washing these. You’ll have to walk home muddy.”

“I don’t care,” said Dior, “only I thought you might be cross.”

“I am not cross,” Tinúviel said. She offered him her hand to hold, and they began to walk. “But you worried me, Dior. You know you must not go beyond the rose-hedge. It is dangerous; there are things in this forest that do not know you.”

“But I’ve _been_ everywhere inside the hedge ten hundred million times!”

“It is as beautiful as it ever was.”

“But I’ve seen it all already and I want to explore somewhere else!”

Tinúviel wondered if this was her son’s Mannish half showing itself. Beren was content to remain within the rose-hedge, but Beren was growing old, and his legs were not what they had been. And since the two of them had met, he had not much minded where he was, so long as she was there with him. In his youth, she remembered, he had wandered far – and occasionally it had been by choice.

“If you are very good,” she said, “and if you promise not to stray, then I will take you to explore beyond the hedge. But you must not try to go again without me.”

“Isn’t it dangerous for you too?” Dior said curiously.

She laughed. “No, child. Everything beneath the shadow of this forest knows that it is mine.”


	3. Nimloth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't satisfied with Nimloth's canonical backstory, so I changed it. She's a Green-elf from Ossiriand now.

I met a lady in the meads  
Full beautiful – a faery's child,  
Her hair was long, her foot was light,  
And her eyes were wild.  
– “La Belle Dame Sans Merci,” by John Keats

Nimloth fell to her knees in the shallows of the lake and plunged her face straight into the water. It was sour and silty and bitterly cold, but it was wet, and at the moment that was all she cared about. She drank until her lungs were burning, and surfaced gasping, shaking her head like a dog, droplets flying from the fringes of her ragged hair. As soon as she had some breath back she drank again, now less desperately, making a cup with her hands. She stopped only when the twinging of her stomach at the sudden influx of cold water grew too painful to be ignored.

Wincing, she crawled out of the shallows and let herself collapse on the pebbled shore. She curled in her knees and pressed an arm against her belly, trying to ease its aching. She flung her other arm across her face to shield her eyes from the brightness of the sun.

What felt like no more than an instant later, she woke to the sound of singing.

The sunlight was gone, and for a moment she panicked, thinking that somehow she had not escaped at all. But the breeze was sweet, and the moonlight was soft on the water, and the singer’s voice was not hushed but clear and carrying and unafraid. She breathed.

It seemed to her that she drew the song into her lungs with the night-air. It was agile, warbling; it had no words, but it recalled to her the life of rooted things, the unfurling of their leaves and petals in the spring. It strengthened her. She lay still for a few moments longer, breathing in the song and the clean smell of the lake; then slowly she stirred, and stretched her stiff limbs, and raised herself with difficulty from the ground.

There came no pause in the singing as she clambered to her feet, brushing pebbles away from where they had stuck to her skin. She made a slow turn, taking in the hills of bright heather to the north, the thick clusters of reeds about the lakeshore, the tangled forest rising beyond. She could not see the singer. The voice did not seem to be coming from any one place; it was like the voice of the wild world itself, borne to her on the breeze from the lake and the forest and the hills all at once. But there must be a singer, mustn’t there? If the wilderness sang, surely it would not do so in an elven voice.

She set off cautiously down the lakeshore. The pebbles clacked softly together as they shifted beneath her feet. She could find no sign that anyone besides herself had ever set foot in this place – no sign but the singing, which rolled on and on, now trilling like a treeful of birds, now flowing deep and tranquil as a broad forest stream. She could still not make out where it was coming from, but she thought it was growing louder as she picked her way down the shore. Before her she saw a bank of reeds, standing with their feet in the rich black mud. They grew almost to the forest-edge, with only a little bank of windblown grass between them and the gnarled trees.

She skirted the reeds. The grass brushed softly against her ankles. On the other side another stretch of pebbled beach ran beside the gentle curve of the lake, but as she padded along it she found that the singing was growing slowly quieter again. Her brow furrowed. Had she passed the singer by?

She turned back, walking slowly along the edge of the reed-bed. The reeds were thickly clustered; she could see almost nothing between them. She stepped forward, pushing a few reeds aside. The mud oozed up between her toes.

“Is someone in there?” she called out, with some trepidation.

At once the singing stopped. It felt as if a strong wind had died away without warning; Nimloth gaped for a moment, almost physically unbalanced by the sudden lack. She heard a soft rustling, turned just in time to see a shadowy shape dart from the reed-bed across the grass and vanish into the forest. “Wait!” she cried, reaching out towards it. “Wait, help me, I’m lost –” but the figure was gone, and even the rustling of the forest undergrowth had died away.

She let her hand fall back to her side, suddenly bone-weary once again. That figure had run on two legs. It must have been the singer. Must have been an elf – mustn’t it? But it was gone, and had taken its healing song with it.

A cricket chirped in the reed-bed, then another, and swiftly they built to a chorus. Several frogs let out their creaking calls. Somewhere in the forest an owl hooted. Nimloth blinked. Until now she had not noticed it, but all the ordinary night-noises had been suspended while the stranger sang, as if every creature had hushed itself to listen.

Struck by a sudden impulse, she pushed her way further into the reed-bed. The mud deepened; soon it reached halfway to her knees, but she did not really mind. It had a clean smell to it, and it was pleasantly cool against her skin. The reeds were young and green. They made a living curtain around her. She pushed past a particularly thick cluster, and stopped short.

Ahead of her there was open water, and floating in it was a field of bright lily-pads. Upon each pad there was a flower in full bloom – white-petaled, huge, multilayered. They gleamed in the moonlight, as brilliantly as if it shone from within them.

She stepped out a little further into the lake, legs sinking deeper into the soft mud beneath the water’s surface. The water lapped against her knees. She reached out hesitantly to the nearest flower, running a fingertip across one soft petal. It was not the season for –

“Who are you?”

The voice came from behind her. She gasped, snatching back her hand, and tried to whirl around. But she had not reckoned with the mud. It dragged at her legs, and unable to keep up with her own momentum she lost her balance and toppled sideways.

She had hardly struck the water before there were hands on her arm, hauling her upright. She hunched her shoulders, curling back into herself as she turned to see who had found her. But the stranger did not look angry, although her fall had splashed him with muddy water. His dark eyes were gentle, and his brow was furrowed only in concern. “Are you all right?” he said.

He still had hold of her arm. When she realized, the arm twitched convulsively, and he let go at once. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Where did you come from?”

He was an elf, only an elf. She breathed, relaxed her shoulders. Still there was a tremor in her hands. Should she tell him? He might drive her away if he knew. “I came through the hills,” she said evasively. “Were you the one singing? I’m sorry to have bothered you. It’s just that I’m lost.”

“That’s why I came back,” he replied. “Because you said you were lost. I only ran because I was startled. No one’s supposed – people don’t come through here. At first I thought you might be an orc or something.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

He shook his head fervently. “It’s all right! You’re not one.” He looked suddenly doubtful. “You’re not, are you?”

That startled her into a rusty laugh. “No!”

“Sorry,” he said, and tugged on a lock of his hair, looking sheepish. “I suppose you don’t look at all like an orc? I’ve never seen one.”

“ _Never?_ ” They were just south of Anfauglith. How had he not –

“Nobody comes through here. Orcs either.”

“Oh.” _Why not?_ she wanted to add, but she did not want to annoy him with too many questions. She cleared her throat. “Your flowers are very pretty,” she offered instead.

“Thank you!” He beamed, casting a glance down at the moon-white blossoms. His eyelashes were dark and long. “They’re not exactly _mine._ I just coaxed them out early. Water-lilies are sweet, you know? You just have to love them and they’ll love you back. They can’t do this too often or they’ll lose the strength to bloom in season, but if you give them the right song to lean on they can manage it once or twice. I was missing them, so I came up to visit. Aren’t they glorious?”

“Yes!” said Nimloth, laughing again. There was something about his mannerisms that put her at ease, though he _was_ a stranger. Perhaps it was the freedom in the way he spoke – as careless as a child, saying everything that came into his head. But the things he was _saying_ – he himself didn’t seem to realize they were at all extraordinary, but –

She searched for words. “You just – you sang them into bloom? Just like that – all in one sitting?”

“I wasn’t sitting,” he said. “Why – can’t you do things like that? You’re elven.”

“Yes,” she said, and then “no,” and trailed off in confusion.

Her companion’s brow furrowed. “You can, and you’re not elven? Or you can’t, and you are? No, you’re not a Man, and you couldn’t possibly be a dwarf – you’re as tall as my father. You must be an elf. So why can’t you? Did something happen? Is that why you look such a mess?” He winced at the look on her face. “I’m sorry. Was that rude? I don’t know how you’re supposed to talk to strangers. And if something horrible’s happened you don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to – only I’d like to help, if I can – you’ve got scars and all. I’m sorry, I’m not supposed to bring any of this up, am I? I was afraid of that. Only you said you were lost –”

“It’s all right,” Nimloth said hastily, raising her hands. “I don’t mind. I only – I haven’t seen anyone in days and days, and I don’t know where I am. And –” She bit her lip, hesitating. “And I’m hungry. But if you don’t have anything to spare –”

“Of course you can have some food!” he cried. “I _thought_ you looked awfully skinny. I’ll go – come on, let’s get out of the mud, and – oh, the mud, I should bring you a change of clothes too – your dress is all worn out anyway –”

Bemused and relieved in equal measure, she found herself laughing once more. “Thank you,” she said quickly, before he had a chance to take offense at her mirth. “Thank you – it’s my fault, but we’ve done everything out of order.”

“Have we?” He looked puzzled.

“Well, we haven’t said what we can call each other.”

“Oh!” His expression cleared. “Sorry. My name’s Dior. What’s yours?”

She swallowed. Hesitated. A cool breeze blew off the lake, ruffling her hair. The sky was vast above her. She wore no chains.

“I’m Nimloth,” she said. And just the saying of her own name, standing in the clean mud amidst nodding reeds and chirping crickets, made her heart do a little jump in her chest, less than half fear, more than half joy. So she said it again. “I’m Nimloth.”


	4. Tinúviel

O where ha you been, Lord Randal, my son?  
And where ha you been, my handsome young man?  
I ha been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon,  
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.”  
– _Lord Randal,_ trad.

Dior was keeping a secret.

Tinúviel had considered the possibility the first time she caught him digging about furtively in the root-cellar. Her suspicion had grown as, night after night, he had slipped away north and returned home only at the break of dawn. Now, as he stood frozen by the rose-hedge, a pitcher of wine drooping by its handle from his uncertain fist, she was sure of it. And she thought – she feared – she knew what the secret was.

“I – I thought I’d go and have a picnic,” her son said.

Tinúviel raised her eyebrows. “All by yourself, in the outer forest? With wine and nothing else? Be careful,” she added, “that’s going to spill.”

Hastily Dior steadied the pitcher. “Yes,” he said. He coughed. “Um, would you like to come?”

Tinúviel sighed. “Dior, I know you are lying to me.”

He startled. The pitcher jolted in his hand; a little wine spilled from it. She watched his expression change: the flash of guilt across his features, his struggle to compose them. She had not, in fact, _known_ that he was lying – but she did now.

She softened her own expression. “You needn’t be afraid to tell me anything, you know. All I want to do is keep you safe. But I can’t do that if you keep secrets from me.”

She sat down, settling herself in the soft moss by the rose-hedge, and patted the ground beside her. Hesitantly Dior sat as well, balancing the wine-pitcher between his knees. He was going to stain his clothes with the wine that had run down the side of the pitcher, but she let it be. She had more pressing concerns at the moment.

“My love,” she said. “My little Dior.” She reached for his free hand, covered it with her own. Interlaced their fingers. “Whatever burden it is you are bearing, you do not need to bear it alone. I can help you. I want to help you. Only tell me what is going on.”

Dior hesitated, biting his lip. After a moment he looked up at her, his dark eyes full of worry. “I don’t want you to be angry,” he said.

“I will not be angry with you, Dior, I promise.”

“Not –” He hesitated. “Not just with me.”

Her throat tightened. With difficulty she kept her expression smooth. “So there is someone else involved. A stranger.” How long had this person been meeting with her son?

Dior looked down. “Yes,” he mumbled. “But it’s not – like you’ve warned me about. She’s not dangerous.”

“I can see you believe that,” Tinúviel said gently. “But the spies of Morgoth are many, and the world is filled with skillful liars. How can you know for certain?”

“I do know!”

He drew his hand away from hers. His eyes blazed; his expression was fierce and open. His vehemence startled her, and she was silent.

“I _know_ her,” Dior plunged on. “She doesn’t deserve to be called a liar or a spy. It’s not right to say such things about her. Not after everything she’s suffered at Morgoth’s hands. She would never serve him – never!”

Tinúviel frowned. She knew the look she saw now on her son’s face. She had worn it herself, years ago in Menegroth when Beren stood before Elu Thingol young and ragged and proud, and Thingol laughed and called him _thrall_ and _baseborn._ A pang ran through her, but of what emotion she could not tell. “Dior,” she said. Her voice was quieter now, less coaxing, less calculated. “Dior, are you in love?”

Dior looked away, his cheeks darkening in the fashion of Men. He seemed to steel himself; then, setting the wine aside on a flat patch of ground, he got to his feet. “I am in love,” he said. He was using the voice that Beren always put on when the people in his stories made speeches. “Like you I found my true-love lost and wandering in the woods of my home. Like you I courted her in secret. Like you I stand now before my parent with my secret revealed, and ask for permission to wed.”

“It’s early yet to talk of wedding!” Tinúviel said, with a little laugh. Her son’s expression shuttered, and hurriedly she held up her hands in apology. “I am not Thingol, love. I had much rather you marry with my blessing than that I lose you as he lost me. But you know I must be cautious. I have to keep you and your Ada safe. I have to keep all of Dorthonion free from the Enemy’s influence. I don’t even know this person’s name, or how she managed to cross the border – I can’t simply assume that she is trustworthy.”

Dior folded his arms and looked down. “You could trust _me._ ”

“I do,” Tinúviel said. “I do.”

She stood, resting a hand on her son’s shoulder. He shifted, but did not pull away. “I am not saying _no,_ ” she said gently. “It is only that I am not yet saying _yes._ ”

Dior scowled at the ground.

Tinúviel sighed, and took her hand from his shoulder. She offered him a small smile. “Tell me about her.”

He hesitated, but his scowl faded. Tinúviel waited. The night-wind sighed around her. At last her son spoke.

“Her name is Nimloth,” he said. His eyes were still turned toward the ground, but Tinúviel caught something of the look that was in them, soft and pensive. “I met her by Aeluin in the middle spring. She found me asking the water-lilies to flower, and she thought it was so wondrous – I thought everyone could do that, all elves I mean, but they can’t, she says. She says I must be able to do it because of your mother being a Maia. She’s told me so much about the world outside, things I never knew before, stories I can hardly believe! She's so brave. She’s suffered so much but she still loves the wide world, the whole of it, earth and sky – she’s traveled all over – she comes from Ossiriand, and she told me all about it and about the Laegrim. She’s a Laegel – did you know they don’t live in one place? They go on traveling all the time and moving their camps so they don’t overburden any part of the forest. They’re very careful for the forest, and for everything that lives there with them. They don’t eat meat, did you know, just like Ada! Nimloth had to eat meat in the mines but she hated it, she –”

Tinúviel’s heart thudded. She held up a hand. “Wait. Stop. _In the mines?_ ”

“Oh,” said Dior. “I forgot I hadn’t told you about that yet.”

Tinúviel shook her head, trying to gather herself. “You do mean the mines of Angband?”

Dior nodded, biting his lip. “They took her from the north edge of Ossiriand, after the Noldor lost all that land to Morgoth. I was afraid it might worry you. It wasn’t her fault –”

“No – no, of course it wasn’t her fault, but that’s not the _point –_ don’t you remember anything I’ve told you about escaped thralls? Escaped – people don’t just break out of Angband, Dior! I know I’ve told you what happened when Beleg found Dimaethor free and guided him back into Doriath –”

“That was one person!” Dior cried. “It’s not fair to judge Nimloth over –”

“It only happened once in _Doriath_ , but only because we didn’t permit any other supposed escapees to pass the Girdle. In other places it happened over and over again, until they closed their borders too. Morgoth has been doing this for centuries, Dior! He releases thralls broken to his service, as spies or assassins or sowers of despair, and they bring ruin to those that take them in – and now you are telling me that one of them has broken through _my_ borders, and furthermore that you are in _love_ with her and you want to – what? Give her the run of the place? Bring her past the rose-hedge and show her where we sleep, where we store our food –”

“Nimloth wouldn’t –”

“How can you know what she would or wouldn’t do? What experience have you with spies and liars?”

“What experience did _you_ have with them?” Dior shot back. “When you met Ada –” 

“Beren wasn’t a liar –”

“ _Neither is Nimloth!”_ Dior clutched at handfuls of his hair, glaring at his mother. Tears glittered in his eyes. “What do you want to do, turn her away? Back into Anfauglith? She’ll _die_ , nana! She’ll die, and it’ll be your fault, and I’ll never forgive you, never! How _dare_ you? After what your father did to you and Ada! You’re as bad as he was – no – you’re worse. Elu Thingol wasn’t sending Ada off to starve in the wilderness. If someone did this to Ada you’d _kill_ them for it, but I suppose it’s all right when it’s my love and not yours? She’s been hurt so badly, and she’s just starting to bloom again, and you want to –”

Tinúviel’s heart twisted painfully at his distress. “Oh, my Dior,” she said, “I am so sorry to have hurt you.” She reached out to embrace her son – but he stepped away from her.

“It’s Nimloth you should be sorry to,” he said stubbornly.

“ _Dior_. Oh, my child.” Again she reached for him, and again he stepped away. This time, inattentive in his anger, he struck the vessel of wine with the side of his foot. It toppled over, and its contents came rushing forth, making a dark pool on the hard earth.

Tinúviel winced to see it, but Dior did not so much as look down. He narrowed his eyes at his mother. “Don’t try to make up with me until you’ve promised you won’t turn Nimloth away or hurt her.”

For a long moment Tinúviel was silent. She moved her foot out of the way of the still-spreading pool of wine. At last she spoke. “Perhaps…” She sighed. “Perhaps it would be best after all for me to meet Nimloth before judging her. I cannot promise not to turn her away – no, Dior, I _cannot_ – what if she tried to hurt Ada, hmm? But I promise you that…” She paused, considering her wording. “I promise that I will not injure her or turn her away unless she proves herself to be a danger to our family. And you may bring her to meet me – at some spot in the forest, not at the rose-hedge yet, mind you – so that I may speak with her myself, and judge whether she is worthy of our trust. Can you be content with that?”

Dior stared at her for a moment, his face unreadable; then, unmindful of the pool of wine now making red mud of the soil before him, he took a single stride forward and cast himself into Tinúviel’s arms. She clasped her arms tight around him, held him to her bosom. He rested his head in the crook of her neck. Only now did he begin to cry in earnest.


	5. Nimloth

“Who's this pulls the red, red rose  
Breaks branches off the tree?  
Or who's this treads my garden-grass,  
Without the leave of me?”  
– “Tam Lin,” trad.

“You’re sure she won’t hurt me?” Nimloth asked again. She had repeated herself to the point of tedium, and if her lover hadn’t been – well – _Dior_ , he would certainly have grown annoyed with her by now. But because he _was_ Dior, he only gave her the same gentle smile he had given her every time. “Absolutely sure,” he said, and squeezed her hand. “Nana wouldn’t lie to me.”

They stood among the roots of a huge old oak, still putting forth green leaves despite the great hollow at its base. Ivy twined about its trunk, curtaining the opening and dangling from its high branches. Dior’s home was not very close by, he said; his mother had not wanted to reveal where their family dwelt before she had determined that Nimloth was trustworthy.

His mother. Lúthien Tinúviel, enchantress, Maia-daughter, who had lain low Morgoth himself in the very seat of his power. Nimloth still did not understand how she had managed to pass the borders of Lúthien’s land. If she had known what country she was attempting to enter, that day half a year ago when she had stumbled through the pricking heather half-dead of thirst and exhaustion, she would have turned aside. The tales of what befell those who trespassed in Dorthonion were not kind. Tinúviel had learned from her mother – but the Girdle of her own land threatened more than bewilderment. Nimloth had not heard that it waited for its victims to starve.

And yet here Nimloth was – not entombed beneath the solid-seeming soil, not stripped to the bone by clinging vines that should not have had a taste for flesh, but alive, breathing in the distant scent of roses, clinging to the hand of Tinúviel’s _son_ and waiting for the enchantress herself to come and greet her _._

A year ago she had been a slave. Now – what _was_ this? Was she living in a dream?

All at once the leaves of the forest whispered together; the trees’ branches bent, but not as a wind would bend them. Nimloth gripped Dior’s hand, staring wide-eyed into the darkness between the trees.

“You have come.”

The voice sounded from behind her, chill and echoing. She spun around. No one there but the forest. The branches seemed to hang closer over her head.

“I thought perhaps you would leave rather than venture to meet me.”

Behind her once more. She whirled again, and now she saw the speaker – a shadow among the shadows, tall and formless, rooted in the earth, cloaked with the night. Eyes gleaming in the darkness like cold stars. Below, something that shone red and pulsed like a beating heart.

“Don’t frighten her, Nana,” Dior said, and put his arm around her. Nimloth shrank into his side.

The shadow came forward. It did not diminish, but the figure within it grew clearer, easier to discern. Tinúviel was beautiful in a manner Nimloth could not define. Her face was cold, features arranged as precisely as though they had been carved from marble. Her hair fell about her shoulders like a mantle made of night. The thing gleaming red at her throat resolved itself into gem-shape, a faceted stone that shone with such terrible splendor Nimloth knew it could only be the Silmaril. Its light reflected on the hilt of the sword that hung from Tinúviel’s belt.

“You claim you love my son,” Tinúviel said, stepping closer.

Nimloth could not speak.

“Nothing to say?” Another step.

“You’re frightening her,” Dior said indignantly. “If you’d only stop it, she’d be perfectly able to talk to you!”

Tinúviel arched a brow. “You told me she was brave.”

“Sorry –” Nimloth managed, almost crushing Dior’s hand with the desperate strength of her grip. “I’m sorry – you’re –” She gestured helplessly with her free hand. “I – yes, I love him.” _Please don’t kill me –_

“Hm.” Tinúviel looked her up and down. “How did you cross the borders of my land without my permission?”

“I – don’t know,” Nimloth said.

“Why then did you attempt to do so? Surely you have heard what becomes of trespassers here.”

Nimloth’s mouth was very dry. She swallowed. “I didn’t know where I was,” she said. “I didn’t realize – I was lost – please, if you’ll let me stay, I –”

Tinúviel’s eyes narrowed sharply. “What other land could it have been?”

Nimloth shook her head, overwhelmed. “I don’t – I wasn’t thinking – I was frightened, I –”

Tinúviel spoke abruptly, cutting her off. “Let go of her, Dior.”

Reluctantly, Dior did so. “You promised not to hurt her –”

“I shall not hurt her,” Tinúviel said crisply. “Come here, Nimloth.”

Nimloth took a step away from Dior’s side. She hesitated. Tinúviel towered over her, seeming taller somehow than the trees arching over both their heads. The night sky was obscured by the tangled forest. There were no stars to be seen – only Tinúviel’s bright cold eyes.

“Come,” Tinúviel snapped.

Nimloth obeyed.

Tinúviel guided her closer to the oak’s hollow trunk. “Tell me what you see.”

“I – what I see? I don’t –”

“How could you possibly have escaped from Angband? Where are your family and people?”

Nimloth hesitated, bewildered by the sudden shift. “I – my father is still in Ossiriand – I escaped – another thrall, she hid a pickaxe, she started a –”

Tinúviel held up a hand to halt her. “Look at the oak. What do you see?”

“In the hollow –?”

“Yes, in the hollow,” she snapped.

“It’s dark – I –”

“Then look more closely.”

“Nana?” said Dior uncertainly from behind them.

Tinúviel ignored him. Her hand rested now on her bosom, just below the base of her throat; her fingernail tapped restlessly against the polished surface of the Silmaril. “Look,” she told Nimloth again.

The hairs on the back of Nimloth’s neck prickled with unease, but she dared not disobey Tinúviel’s command. She stepped forward, resting one hand on the rim of the hollow, pushing aside the ivy with the other. It was a huge opening – almost like a doorway, she thought. A musty smell drifted from the hole. Within she saw nothing but darkness.

She stooped a little, seeking a better angle, leaning into the dark as she strained her eyes for a glimpse of whatever Tinúviel wanted her to see –

and all at once she felt herself shoved hard –

she stumbled forward, catching herself with a hand against the splintery inner wall of the hollow – began to turn –

a burst of wordless song, harsh in her ears – a light more brilliant than the sun, red as blood, filling her vision –

and the mouth of the hollow snapped shut.


	6. Dior

I saw their starved lips in the gloam  
With horrid warning gapèd wide,  
And I awoke and found me here  
On the cold hill's side.  
– “La Belle Dame Sans Merci,” by John Keats

Nimloth was screaming and so was Dior, struggling for all he was worth, hitting at his mother with fists as ineffectual as a child’s as she hauled him away from the oak. What words he was crying out he hardly knew – his mind was full of Nimloth’s terror, leaving no room for lucid thought. “You promised me,” he shrieked, “you promised, you promised,” but Tinúviel’s arms held him like bonds of iron. She murmured something to him, low and soothing, just audible as a hum laid beneath his and Nimloth’s screams. Why would she not listen to him? Why – she lifted him bodily from the ground, got an arm beneath his knees although he kicked – her other arm around his back – she carried him like a child, apparently without effort though he was grown to man-height, and she murmured to him as to a child and would not hear him and would not let him go. She was walking now, strides slow and even, but was Nimloth’s voice fading with distance or with lack of air? He was quiet for an instant to listen, and his lover’s voice pierced straight through him – he felt the tears start in his eyes – he squirmed, twisted like a worm on a hook, but Tinúviel held him. “Nana,” he cried, “Nana, stop,” and she bent her head over him, her expression gentle, and murmured to him soothingly – or – _no_ – she sang _._ He recognized the tune. She had sung it at his bedside when he was a child – her voice was buzzing in his ears – the Silmaril swung back and forth in time to her footsteps – but she must not…she _must not…_

Her hair fell against his cheek like a curtain, dark as shadows, soft as sleep…

He awoke disoriented, lying upon something soft. For an instant he thought, _I was dreaming_ , and a surge of desperate relief rushed through him. But he opened his eyes and saw that it was not yet even close to morning, and besides, he wore his walking-clothes and not his sleeping-gown – and his throat was raw with shouting.

He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the rush of dizziness that came on him from rising too fast. He glanced about him. He had been laid on the moss-couch at the top of the slope near the cottage, close to the center of the space the rose-hedge enclosed. He hastened down the slope – and nearly ran into his mother, standing still and silent beneath the shadow of the trees. She caught him by the arm as he tried to dodge away.

“Let go,” he cried, tugging ineffectually at his arm.

“Dior,” she said. “Calm yourself.”

All at once he was furious. He shoved Tinúviel, surprising her so that she actually stumbled backward a few steps, though she did not let go of him and he was pulled along after her. “Don’t tell me to _calm myself_ ,” he snarled up into his mother’s face. “You broke your word! You promised you wouldn’t hurt her –”

“I did not hurt her,” Tinúviel said. Her voice was quite calm, but her gaze pierced straight through him. “I imprisoned her. There is a difference.”

“You’re going to argue about phrasing? Does she even have _air_ to breathe?”

“I do not know,” said Tinúviel; “that is the oak’s affair.”

With an inarticulate cry Dior wrenched his arm free of his mother’s grasp. She let him do so, but even as he readied himself to run past her, he saw her own body tense in preparation and knew that she would catch him again. She was both stronger and faster than he. He was trapped as Nimloth was.

His stomach felt hollow.

He began to weep.

“Oh, Dior,” Tinúviel said, her sternness melting away, and she reached for him with gentle hands; but he backed away from her until he stood at the edge of the bed of moss, and his mother did not pursue him. She stood with her arms stretched out to him, not demanding but inviting, and he hated himself for how much, even now, he wanted to fall into her embrace.

“She’s not your enemy, Nana,” he said. His voice broke. “She’s innocent. And I love her.”

Tinúviel smiled sadly at him. “Oh, my son.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed the heels of his hands against them. “Nana.”

“Oh, my Dior.”

He couldn’t bear it. That tone, that condescending compassion – he wanted to hit something, he wanted to run away – Nimloth might be dying – Nimloth might be – “Nana,” he repeated, and he did not mean to shout, but the more his voice rose the stronger grew the impulse to let it keep rising, to let it grow so loud it would break through whatever barrier she had set up between herself and the truth and she would _listen to him –_ “Nana, she’s innocent, she’s _innocent, she’s innocent, she’s –_ ”

“What is happening out here?”

His father’s voice. Startled, Dior turned, taking his hands from his eyes. There stood Beren on the path leading up from the cottage, barefoot in his nightclothes, hand clasped about the trunk of a sapling for support. Concern was written on his wrinkled face.

“My heart!” cried Tinúviel, hastening to Beren’s side. “I am so sorry – did we wake you? Forgive me – here, give me your arm, I’ll help you back –”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Beren said mildly. “Why was Dior shouting?”

Dior opened his mouth, and remembered his father knew nothing yet of Nimloth. He hesitated, wondering how to proceed, and his mother took the opportunity to answer the question herself. “A spy of Morgoth,” she said gravely, “a thrall set loose from Angband, has snared Dior in imagined love, and he is angry with me because –”

“Because you’re _killing_ her,” Dior broke in, “and she’s not a spy, she’s –”

“I told you I would not kill her and I am not doing so.”

“That’s a lie! You don’t even know if she can _breathe_ –”

“Peace!” said Beren, holding up a hand. “I’m too frail to see my family arguing so.” Tinúviel began to fret over him at once, but he waved her gently away. “Besides, I think I’ve caught the gist of things. There’s no need for shouting when it won’t make either of you budge. Tinúviel –”

“But Ada –” Dior began.

Beren held up his hand again. “Tinúviel,” he said, “why don’t I take Dior back down to the cottage with me? He can tell me all about how he’s feeling. And I think it will calm the both of you to spend a little while apart from each other.”

“Ada!” Dior cried. “How I’m _feeling_ isn’t the problem –”

“And we will talk about that,” Beren said firmly, “in the cottage. Tinúviel?”

She hesitated. “What if he runs off to do something reckless?”

“Then I will call for you,” said Beren, “and you will prevent him from doing it. Come along, Dior. Give your father your arm. Tinúviel, you must look after yourself as well as us. Rest a little on the moss-couch – take all the time you need. We’ll be quite all right. Go on.”

Taking hold of Dior’s arm, he arranged it beneath his own so as to best support himself, and started back down the hill. Dior walked with him, his mind a tangle of worry. But where his mother would not be convinced, his father might be. He had to find an argument that would convince Beren to help him. He had to _think_ – but it was so hard, with his mind returning every moment to Nimloth suffocating in the dark. His father moved so slowly. Dior burned with anguished impatience.

At last they reached the cottage. Dior held aside the curtain of ivy for his father to enter. Beren halted for a moment on the threshold and looked back; then he went into the cottage, stepping carefully over the door-jamb, and shuffled across the room to seat himself carefully on his bed.

“Come here,” he said quietly, and Dior obeyed, settling himself beside his father.

“Now,” said Beren, “tell me exactly what has happened. But speak quietly.”

Dior blinked. Gone was the gentle, conciliatory tone that his father had used outside. Now he sounded like – like a commander of armies in one of his stories. His voice still creaked like ancient wood, but there was steel beneath it.

“Hurry,” said Beren, and Dior recalled himself. He cleared his throat, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice.

“Nimloth – I’ve known her for half a year now, I love her, she’s never tried to hurt me, she’s not a spy – she escaped Angband –” There was no time. He tried to gather himself. What was most important? What would convince his father? “Nana trapped her in a hollow tree. Nimloth didn’t do anything, Nana only thinks she’s dangerous because she was a thrall, but that doesn’t make any _sense_ – just because she’s suffered doesn’t mean –”

“I believe you,” his father said gently.

Dior stared at him. “You do?”

“I do not think the tricks a spy of Morgoth might use would entice you to fall in love,” said Beren. “I suspect your Nana is not quite so convinced otherwise as she claims to be. Tinúviel…” He paused. “Tinúviel loves us dearly. Fell things come sometimes out of the north, and she wants to keep us absolutely safe. She is not concerned about the safety of strangers.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Dior whispered, horrified. “Then she – but Nimloth could _die_ – Ada, I –”

“No time,” Beren said swiftly.

“Yes,” said Dior, trying to steady his breath. “I’m sorry. I think – I mean, I could try to convince the tree to open again. But Nana will find out I’m missing. She’ll catch me at it.”

“Then I shall have to distract her,” said Beren, “to give you enough time. And you shall have to pretend that I talked sense into you, so that she will not insist on keeping you in sight.” He sighed, and then Dior saw him force a smile onto his face. He clasped Dior’s shoulder and spoke a little more loudly. “Why don’t you call her now, and apologize for shouting at her?”

Dior nodded. He stood, a little shakily, and went to the doorway of the cottage. Leaning through the curtain of ivy, he cupped his hands around his mouth and cried, “Nana? Will you come, please?”

As he stood there waiting, he heard his father push himself up from the bed and shuffle over to him. Beren laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I wish we had more time for this,” he murmured. “But I love you, Dior, and so does your mother. We always will. Remember that.”

Dior twisted around to look at him, eyes wide. “Ada?”

His father raised his bushy eyebrows. “Surely you’re not going to send your love away alone?”


	7. Nimloth

A storm was coming, but the winds were still,  
And in the wild woods of Broceliande,  
Before an oak, so hollow, huge and old  
It looked a tower of ivied masonwork,  
At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay.  
– “Merlin and Vivien,” by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Terrors loomed at her out of the darkness. She knew they were not there, could not be there, but her eyes were straining to make anything out and what they expected to see in a blackness like this was all Angband. The flame of a balrog – safety-lanterns grasped in orc-claws – sparks from a pickaxe, flaring as they fell, and you could only hope the coal-dust did not lie too thick on the ground. They were faint pictures, like a dream, something you think you see out of the corner of your eye – but for all that, she couldn’t help the way her gaze always jerked towards them, couldn’t stop the breath from catching in her throat. Every time. Every time. Wasn’t reality already frightening enough?

She had stopped screaming when she realized Dior’s cries had faded into silence. She had scolded herself for panicking, and pretended to herself that she had stopped doing so; and she had thrown herself shoulder-first against the wall of the hollow, again and again until she was bruised and breathless, but the wood that closed her in was healthy and strong and thick around her, and she could not break through. She wondered if Tinúviel’s song had lent the tree unnatural strength. It did not really matter. By nature or by Maiarin power, she was trapped.

She sat now on the floor of the hollow with her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, so as not to touch the walls and be reminded of how closely they hemmed her in.

The air was stiflingly hot, and full of sawdust; it tickled her throat and made her cough. She felt as though she could not get a full breath, and she could not tell whether that was only due to her fear or whether she was actually going to suffocate.

Tinúviel meant for her to die in here. She would try to stop Dior from coming back. Perhaps she would not be able to keep him away forever, but if there were no fresh air coming into the tree –

or even if there were, if Tinúviel kept Dior away long enough for thirst to –

Nimloth shuddered, and drew her knees more tightly against her chest.

Traces of fire in the dark. She flinched and looked up before she remembered. There was no fire. The darkness was absolute.

She listened for Dior coming, but there was no sound but the creaking of the oak around her.

Perhaps she should sing. Tinúviel had sung to trap her in here; Dior sang and the forest listened. She had no Maiarin blood, she was not skilled as they were, but perhaps the oak had learned to trust elven voices. Perhaps it would listen anyway.

What other hope did she have?

She got to her feet, a little awkwardly due to the narrowness of the hollow, steadying herself with a hand on the splintery wall. How did one communicate with a tree? Dior sang sometimes with words, sometimes merely with music, and both kinds of song received answers from the green things of the forest. Tinúviel had sung without words to close the tree, but the Silmaril had flared with power and the hollow had snapped shut far more quickly than anything Nimloth had seen Dior's songs accomplish. That was no use as an example.

Nimloth bit her lip. She supposed the only thing to do was to try.

The first note she sang was thin in the darkness. She faltered, cleared her throat, began again. Now her voice was stronger. She heard it reverberate through the narrow hollow.

“Oak tree,” she sang. “Oak tree, hear me. Pity me.”

No answer. None that she could perceive, at any rate. She swallowed. Began again. “Oak tree, open your hollow. Let me go free. I am singing to you.” Pause for breath. It was hard to hold a note for long in this stale air. “Oak tree, please hear my singing. Hear what I ask. Let me go free.”

She fell silent a moment to listen. Nothing but the creaking of the wood.

Ai, she had no idea what she was doing! She would never manage it – even if it really were possible for an ordinary person to achieve such a feat. The tree served Tinúviel. It would not listen to her.

The dark pressed in around her, thick and cloying. She had thought she was done with such darkness.

She bowed her head and cried a little in silence.

At length she dried her eyes. Despairing had never yet aided anyone. She could still breathe. Dior might yet come. She must not give up hope.

Again she sang, very quietly, this time to herself alone.

“ _Child, do not fear  
The night will not harm thee  
The shadows are tame here  
The stars shine above…”_

She stopped. There had been a noise.

She kept still and listened. Yes, there was the noise again – she was not imagining it. It grew louder, little by little. She thought – yes – those were the footfalls of a runner, and they were drawing nearer to the tree.

She hesitated. But if it was Tinúviel who was coming, Nimloth could not hide anyway. “Dior?” she called. She cupped her hands about her mouth and pressed their edges against the wood. “Dior, are you there?”

_“Nimloth!”_

She nearly collapsed in relief.

“You’re alive!” she heard him cry, his voice muffled by the living wood between them. “You’re alive, you’re alive – are you running out of air? You’re not hurt, are you? I didn’t think you were, but –”

“I’m not hurt,” she called back to him, and a little laughter came into her voice; that was Dior, that was his own dear earnestness. He had come for her. It was going to be all right. “I think if I were running out of air it would have happened by now. There must be a hole somewhere. Are you safe? You’re not hurt?”

“Oh, no!” He sounded shocked. “Nana wouldn’t hurt me. No, but I’ve got to hurry. Ada’s helping, he’s trying to keep Nana from noticing that I left, but –”

“Of course.” The laughter was gone. “Are you going to sing? Do you need me to do anything?”

“No – I mean, yes, I’m going to sing – you can just wait in there.” Without a pause he slipped smoothly into song. “ _My friend, my friend, this is not the shape you held before –_ oh, hang on a moment. That’s odd.”

“What’s odd?” Nimloth asked.

“She’s been softened. The tree, I mean. She’s hardening up again now – it’s like ice after the end of a warm spell – did you do something?”

Nimloth’s brow furrowed. “The – the wood’s been softened?”

“No, not the _wood,_ the _tree._ Her… oh, I don’t think there’s a word for it. What she’s got instead of a fëa. She’s not so steadfast about listening to Nana. I think she likes you a little. You _did_ do something, didn’t you?”

Nimloth felt shy – and _that_ was absurd at a moment like this. “I sang a bit,” she told him. “Just to see if it might help. I didn’t think it did.”

“It did, though!” Dior sounded almost cheerful. “Oh, this is excellent. Here, why don’t you – hmm – yes, you sing something and I’ll try to convince her to open and I think she’ll be willing to consider it!”

“What should I sing?”

“Anything, anything!” he said. Nimloth smiled; she could practically see him flapping his hands in enthusiasm. “She likes your voice. Just remind her of that while I try to persuade her.”

“All right.” Nimloth cleared her throat uncertainly. Well, if he really meant _anything_ , there was that lullaby she had been singing to herself before. “ _Child, do not fear,”_ she began again, a little tremulously.

And Dior’s voice soared above hers, and folded its wings to dive below, and entwining itself with Nimloth’s voice it bore her melody along within his own. Back on the shores of Aeluin they had taught each other a few songs each, lounging on the grass in the gray twilight, but that had been nothing like this. She had never experienced anything like this. It was not her who was singing – except it was; the voice spilling from her throat was at once unfamiliar and more entirely hers than it had ever been before. She could not hear herself, but she could feel the place her music lay, supported and encompassed by the swell of Dior’s song. She thought she was still singing the same lullaby with which she had begun, and yet it was different, as a thread within a tapestry is different than one alone. Nimloth shivered, almost afraid. But she went on singing.

Her voice grew hoarse; she did not hear it, but she felt the ache in her throat. She had not realized they had been singing long enough for her to tire. Dior sang on, but now she heard him beginning to falter as well, the edges of his notes roughening, his voice growing a trifle breathy on his highest pitches. How long had it been? Had Tinúviel already discovered Dior’s absence? Was she on her way here even now? Still Nimloth could see nothing but blackness. What if the tree simply refused to disobey Tinúviel, no matter how much Dior sang?

At last, just as she was wondering how much longer she could keep singing before her voice dissolved into a fit of coughing, she saw it: thin as a filament of spider’s silk, a jagged line of light cracked open in the blank darkness before her.

She gasped, and coughed hard, and realized with a jolt of worry that her surprise had stopped her singing; but Dior sang on, and the crack widened. Slowly, so slowly, the edges of the hollow drew apart from each other where they had been conjoined. Pale morning sunlight spilled in on her, stinging her eyes. Dior’s song took on a new intensity; as the hollow’s mouth widened it revealed him standing before her, his eyes screwed shut in concentration, his lips fluttering with words sung too quickly for Nimloth to comprehend. One of his hands rested lightly on the bark of the oak. His face was a little gray.

As soon as she thought the gap was wide enough to accommodate her, Nimloth flung herself forward and wriggled her way through it like a mouse, heedless of the scrapes she got from the rough wood. The moment she was free, she threw herself at Dior and wrapped him in a tight embrace. He staggered at the impact, and at once she steadied her stance so that he could lean against her a little. “Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely into his shoulder, “thank you, thank you, thank you,” and then she was crying again, pressing her face into the fabric of his tunic.

He patted her gently on the back. “It’s all right,” he said into her hair, and raised his chin to rest it atop her head. “Love, you’re all right. You’re safe.”

The morning air was blissfully sweet.

After too short a time, Dior drew away. “I know,” he said apologetically, when her smile slipped. “But we don’t have time. Nana might already be on her way.”

“You’re right,” said Nimloth, shuddering a little at the reminder. “Do you know a place where we can hide?”

Dior shook his head. “We can’t hide from Nana – not for long, not in Dorthonion. We have to get you away from here.”

“Oh.” Nimloth’s heart gave a pang. She had hoped so hard that these past months’ happiness might last. But there was no use in weeping about it now. She blinked, and swallowed, and smiled firmly. “I see.”

“We’ll make for the southern border,” Dior was saying. “There’s a pass through the mountains, and a bit of road, I think.” He held out his hand. “Come on.”


	8. Beren

Out flew the web and floated wide;  
The mirror crack'd from side to side;  
“The curse is come upon me,” cried  
The Lady of Shalott.  
– “The Lady of Shalott,” by Alfred Lord Tennyson

“He’s gone,” said Tinúviel, pushing through the curtain of ivy. Beren looked up at his wife as she strode into the cottage, not bothering to remove her traveling cloak. “The tree is open, he’s freed the spy, and he’s gone.”

She sat down heavily in a chair by the hearth and put her head in her hands.

Looking at her, Beren felt the tears springing again into his eyes. He tried to blink them away – he had cried enough already – but he could not stop them coming. His wife looked shrunken into herself, hunched over with her back to him and her hair coming loose of its careful bindings. She sat as still as stone.

Beren swallowed. “Tinúviel,” he said, “come sit with me. I have something to tell you.”

She raised her head, looking at him over her shoulder. Her eyes widened. “Beren,” she said, “oh, _Beren,_ ” and standing she hurried over to him where he sat on the edge of the bed. She settled herself close beside him, putting one arm over his shoulders and clasping his hand in his lap. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I should have kept my eye on Dior. I should have stopped him. Oh, my poor love.” She reached up to brush the tears from his eyes.

She too was weeping, Beren saw. Her tears shone faintly silver on her cheeks. He looked hurriedly away from her face, down at the hand that Tinúviel had been holding. “But that is what I have to tell you,” he said. “I let him go.”

Tinúviel froze in the middle of stroking his cheek. “What?” She shook her head, lowering her hand slowly. “No. No, you were distracted. We were both distracted. We were quarreling, we lost track of time, he slipped away from us.”

“Who began the quarrel?” Beren said quietly. “Who brought up the topic of my aging in the first place?”

“Well –” Tinúviel paused. Beren was still looking down and could not see her expression, but he saw her fingers begin to flick agitatedly. “You did.”

“I know as well as you do how long that argument always lasts, once it begins. How thoroughly it absorbs us both.”

He glanced up. Tinúviel was staring at him, her mouth slightly open. She shifted a little away from him, and his throat tightened.

“ _Why?_ ” she whispered at last.

Beren drew a long breath, trying to steady his voice. “Because of us,” he said. “Because I remember how it was with us – and I remember what your father thought of me.”

Tinúviel was speechless for a long moment. “Beren,” she said at last, her voice a little unsteady. “Beren, that was entirely different. We were really in love – it was no infatuation. And you were no spy of Morgoth!”

“And you assume,” Beren said quietly, “that Dior does not truly love this Nimloth, and that she _is_ a spy. Very much as Thingol assumed of me.”

Tinúviel rose and crossed the room. She stood stiffly by the hearth with her back to Beren, her arms folded tightly before her. “That isn’t fair,” she said. “Ad – _Thingol_ had no reason to believe such things about you. That girl was a captive of Morgoth. And how did she manage to cross my border, do you think, without the aid of sorcery?”

“I crossed the Girdle,” Beren pointed out. He hesitated a moment. “And I was a captive of Gorthaur.”

Tinúviel inhaled sharply, and he saw her stiffen even further. “That is not the same thing.”

“Isn’t it?” Beren said. “Dior said this Nimloth was a thrall in the mines of Angband. Morgoth certainly doesn’t guard his own mines; his servants do that, and I can’t imagine that any of those given charge of his thralls are so cunning or powerful as Gorthaur is.”

Tinúviel whirled on him, the Silmaril pulsing brilliantly at the base of her throat. “ _You_ did not break. You were not turned. You held on, and I came, and I –” Her voice broke. “I saved you.”

He saw her expression crumple, and at once he began to push himself up from the bed. When she realized what he was doing she rushed back across the room to him, offering him her hands, helping him to pull himself to his feet. Still she would not look him in the face.

“You saved me,” he echoed. “I am so sorry, my heart. I don’t want to talk about that time either. But I need you to realize – our son needs you to realize – if the only evidence you have against Nimloth is what you have just told me, then you have no more reason to believe that she serves Morgoth than that I do.”

He pressed her hand. She made a strange sound – half-scoff, half-sob – and clutched his in return. “Oh, Beren. But I _know_ you. I know you would never. I don’t know this girl. I don’t know if Dior is safe, if she’s going to hurt him, if she’s going to take him to Morgoth –” She squeezed his fingers so tightly it hurt; just when he was about to ask her to loosen her grip, she let go and stepped away from him. “No. No – I can’t take the chance. I have to – you’ll be careful while I’m gone. You won’t walk too far from the cottage – you won’t try to whittle –”

“Tinúviel –”

“I’ll fetch provisions for you. So you won’t have to risk the ladder.”

She strode out the door; he followed her, trying to hurry. When he emerged from the cottage she was already halfway down the ladder into the root cellar. “Tinúviel, wait,” he said. “What do you mean to do?” But she had already disappeared underground. Probably she had still heard him, he thought – elven ears – but she returned no answer.

He leaned against the side of the cottage as he waited. In a few minutes she emerged again from the cellar, climbing the ladder like a staircase, her arms piled high with food.

“Here,” she said, shutting the trap-door with her foot. “I should only be a few days. This will last you. I’ll leave it all on the table –”

“Wait, Tinúviel –”

But she had already gone into the cottage. He heard the dull clatter of things being put down carelessly on the table, and then, before he had had time to take more than four steps of his own, she was at the door again, buckling her sword-belt around her waist. She had never changed out of her traveling-clothes at all, he realized with a dull pang.

His wife reached out to take his hand. “I love you,” she said, her face grave. “I don’t know what possessed you to risk our child like this, but I love you, and I’ll come back with him soon.”

“Tinúviel –”

She released his hand and hastened away.

“Tinúviel, listen,” he called after her, “imagine if they were you and me –” but she was already gone.

Beren stood for a while with his hand on the doorframe, staring after her into the shadowy trees.


	9. Tinúviel

Somewhere or other, may be near or far;  
Past land and sea, clean out of sight;  
Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star  
That tracks her night by night.

Somewhere or other, may be far or near;  
With just a wall, a hedge, between;  
With just the last leaves of the dying year  
Fallen on a turf grown green.  
– “Somewhere or Other,” by Christina Rossetti

Tinúviel leaned against the young oak, listening to the sap running strong within the trunk. She thought of Dior: measured footsteps, fingertips brushing softly against rough bark, song like wind and water and the light of the stars. She thought of Nimloth, a creature with a fast frightened heartbeat, skittering beside him over earth and root. She spoke softly against the bark of the oak. “Have they passed you by?”

No answer but the echo of her own power – but that was answer enough to the question she had asked. “Where have they gone?” she murmured, and from that murmur her voice flowed into quiet song.

 _“Two creatures walk upon the soil,”_ she sang. “ _Your roots have felt their passage. Your long roots feel the echoes of their footfalls on the earth. Tell me where they walked – I who root myself here beside you, I who root myself here in your soil. Two creatures walked two-legged on the earth above your roots; tell me now where they have gone._ Answer me!”

A long hesitation – then the oak gave up its knowledge.

Tinúviel hurried onward. But she did not have to go nearly as far as she had expected. For just as she was approaching the southern edge of her domain, where the forest gave way to the half-built road Morgoth’s orcs had made through the Pass of Anach before Tinúviel had come to drive them out, she heard shouting in the distance.

That was Dior’s voice. Her muscles tensed. Quiet as a cat she slipped between the trees, ducking low behind the cover of shrubs and bramble-bushes as she made her way toward the sound. Before she was much closer she could make out the words.

“…don’t try to make my decisions for me!” Dior’s voice. He sounded tearful. Heart hammering, Tinúviel pushed herself to move faster.

“I’m not!” The girl Nimloth. “I don’t want you to be unhappy, that’s all.”

“That’s trying to make my decisions for me!” Dior again. They were on the orc-road, Tinúviel thought, or just beside it. She would be able to see them soon.

“What am I supposed to do – just watch you be miserable?” Nimloth, defensively. Edging around a hawthorn bush, Tinúviel saw them. They stood among the long grasses by the side of the orc-road, just within the shadow of the forest-eaves. Nimloth stood closer to the trees, her back to Tinúviel; Dior was facing them both, but Tinúviel did not think he would notice her. He was quite absorbed in their argument.

But Nimloth had not hurt him, nor did she seem to be trying to do so, though there were tears streaming down his face.

Tinúviel crouched behind the trunk of an old ash tree and continued watching.

“I won’t be miserable!” Dior said.

“You’re crying! You’ve never left this place, and I can never return to it! I don’t want you to lose your home for me, your family – I know what that’s like, I –”

“You were kidnapped! By orcs!” Dior waved his hands expressively. “ _You’re_ not an orc, don’t call yourself an orc, I’m –”

“I wasn’t –”

“– in _love_ with you and I _chose_ to come with you and I’m _coming!”_ He paused. Turned his face a little away from her. “Unless you don’t want me anymore?”

Nimloth made a soft, hurt sound. “Of course I do,” she said, so quietly Tinúviel could barely make out the words.

“I don’t understand how you could have missed that I was coming,” Dior said. “Didn’t you ever think I meant it when I said I loved you?”

 _“Oh,”_ said Nimloth. “Dior, I –” She cut herself off, bowing her head. Tinúviel saw her shoulders tremble. She heard her say nothing else, but after a moment Dior’s eyes widened, and crossing the space between himself and Nimloth in a few strides he took her into his arms. He bowed his head beside hers. Tinúviel thought he murmured something into Nimloth’s ear.

She looked away from the couple, fixing her eyes on the mossy earth amid the roots of the rowan. She felt like an intruder. No, she _was_ an intruder. And – she pressed her lips together hard, staring determinedly at the ground – and Nimloth was no spy. She could have led Dior out of Dorthonion there and then, and he would have followed her as trustingly as a fawn follows after its mother – but instead she had tried to convince him to return.

Beren had been right. Her son and Nimloth _were_ herself and her husband all over again – which made Tinúviel…

How long had it been since she had called Elu Thingol “Adar” without correcting herself?

The couple were talking again – quietly this time, but she could likely make out her words if she tried. She did not try; instead she turned away from them, leaning against the rowan-tree and drawing her knees in toward her chest.

Part of her still refused to believe that she had been in the wrong. Nimloth had come out of Angband, after all. If she _had_ been a spy, the consequences would not have borne thinking about. Tinúviel had only been trying to protect her family.

But then, it didn’t really matter, in the end, whether or not she had been in the right. She was losing her child anyway. And she had lost him for Beren too, she realized – Beren, who had done nothing at all to drive him away. Beren, nearing the end of his mortal span, too frail now to leave the realm that Dior would never dare enter again for fear that his mother would hold him captive.

She realized she was crying.

If she went to them now, explained herself, asked them both to return with her? But no – she had already deceived them once. They would not trust her, and she would not blame them.

But then – what? Watch her child walk away?

She turned to look again at the couple. They were holding each other tightly. Dior was sobbing into Nimloth’s hair.

It ought to be Beren here. Tinúviel had healed their son’s childhood injuries, but Beren had made him laugh and forget that he had ever been hurt. Tinúviel had guarded him, provided for him, kept him safe, but Beren had been the one to whom Dior went for comfort or advice. It ought to be Beren here to tell Dior and his lover that they could return in safety after all. Beren they might actually believe.

But Beren was not here. Only Tinúviel was; and Tinúviel was rooted to the ground as firmly as any tree, watching her child in silence as assurances, arguments, pleas ran through her mind and were discarded as quickly as they appeared. She had one chance, that was all – and what could she say that would persuade them to trust her?

Now she saw Dior leave Nimloth’s embrace. He walked back toward the trees, and with a flash of guilty joy Tinúviel hoped for a moment that he had decided to return after all. But he halted beside a rowan tree on the forest’s uttermost edge, and resting his hand gently on its trunk he bowed his head close to the bark and said, or sang, something too quiet for Tinúviel to hear.

A moment later she knew what it had been. For the leaves of the trees rustled as if in a wind coming up from the south, and through the roots of the ash tree by which she knelt she felt the message carried north and away: _farewell, farewell. The young-bright-singer bids us farewell._

She turned her head, as if she could see the message being passed on through the forest. When she looked back, Dior had already turned away. Taking Nimloth’s hand he walked with her through the long grass until they reached the edge of the road the orcs had made; then they turned toward the mountains that crowned the horizon, and following the road without setting foot upon it they passed out of the shadow of the last trees of Dorthonion, and out of the land through which Tinúviel’s power ran.

She felt Dior leave. It was a sudden ache in the heart of the land, an emptiness where she had not known emptiness could be, a song that ran on without its harmony. A jolt like lightning shot through Tinúviel’s heart, and all at once she found that she could move.

She sprang to her feet, unbuckling her sword-belt with shaking hands; casting it on the ground beneath the ash tree, she hastened after her child. As she neared the edge of the forest, a thorn-bush caught at her cloak; she hummed a note, and it drew back with a rustle. Ahead, Dior paused, then turned to look behind him. His eyes widened.

“Wait!” Tinúviel cried out. “Wait, please! I mean you no harm!”

Nimloth whirled at the sound of her voice. Dior flung out an arm to shield her. In that moment they were still, standing like deer surprised by some predator, poised in the instant before turning to flee.

Tinúviel halted, still beneath the shadow of the trees, holding her hands palm-up and empty before her.

“Wait,” she cried again, and hoped.


End file.
